The Locked Drawers

Two years after my mother’s brush with a Ouija board, I turned eight, and strange things began to stir around me. My mother and first stepfather had split, and we had moved in with my grandfather in a dusty little town called Red Creek, Oklahoma. The house was a two-story Victorian with a wraparound porch, and our room was at the end of the upstairs hallway. In that room sat an imposing walnut desk, a relic from an antique shop in Tulsa. It had a mirror with two drawers on either side, and the bottom drawers were locked with keyholes that had no keys. My grandfather had paid a pretty penny for it, so he made it strictly off-limits. The desk was a museum piece, to be admired but never touched.

One hot July afternoon, my cousin Lila came over. She was twelve, with a wild imagination and a taste for ghost stories. We sat in my room, cross-legged on the floor, swapping tales of family oddities. I perched on a stack of old boxes, and Lila lounged on my bed across from me. The air was thick with the hum of cicadas, and my grandfather, mother, and grandmother were outside mowing and weeding. ‘You know,’ Lila said, lowering her voice, ‘my mom says your mom’s Ouija thing opened a door.’ I shrugged, but a chill ran up my spine anyway.

Mid-sentence, three soft knocks came from the direction of the desk. We both froze, eyes wide. It wasn’t the wood settling; it was a deliberate, rhythmic tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Lila grinned nervously. ‘Old desks groan,’ she said, but her voice wavered. I forced a laugh. ‘Yeah, that’s all it is.’ We tried to continue our conversation, but the words came out stilted. Then, a faint sound, like something sliding against wood, came from the locked drawers. ‘Did you hear that?’ I whispered. Lila nodded, her face pale.

My heart thumped. The house was silent except for the distant drone of the lawnmower. ‘Maybe a mouse,’ I offered weakly. Lila shook her head. ‘That’s no mouse.’ She slid off the bed and knelt by the desk, her fingers hovering over the keyhole. ‘Don’t touch it!’ I hissed, remembering my grandfather’s command. Lila ignored me. She leaned in, pressing her ear to the wood. ‘I hear breathing,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘From inside.’

Just then, the mirror on the desk clouded over, as if someone had exhaled on it. Lila screamed and stumbled back. I scrambled to my feet, tripping over the boxes. ‘It’s just the heat!’ I said, more to myself than to her. Lila grabbed my arm. ‘We need to get out of here.’ We fled the room, slamming the door behind us, and didn’t stop running until we were outside, gasping in the sunlight. My mother asked what was wrong, but we just shook our heads.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, staring at the desk, which was a dark silhouette against the pale moonlight filtering through the window. The room was suffocating with silence. Then I heard it again: three soft knocks, coming from the desk. I pulled the covers over my head, trying to block out the sound. But worse than the knocks was the whisper that followed, a sound like dry leaves rustling, and then a woman’s voice, faint and mournful, calling a name I didn’t recognize.

The next morning, I told my mother everything. She exchanged a glance with my grandfather, who looked grim. ‘That desk came from an old woman’s estate,’ he said slowly. ‘They say she locked her children in the attic and went mad when they died. She kept their belongings in that desk.’ My blood ran cold. ‘But the drawers are locked,’ I said. My grandfather produced a key from his pocket that I’d never seen before. ‘I had the locksmith make a copy years ago, just in case. I never thought…’ His voice trailed off.

With trembling hands, he unlocked one of the bottom drawers and pulled it open. Inside was a stack of yellowed photographs, a child’s shoe, and a tarnished locket. The other drawer held a small wooden box. He opened the box, and inside was a strand of hair and a dried flower. ‘The woman’s children,’ he murmured. ‘They were never found.’ A cold draft swept through the room, and the mirror fogged up again, this time revealing a word written in the condensation: HELP.

We never stayed in that room again. My grandfather had the desk hauled away to a junkyard, and we pretended the incident had never happened. But sometimes, when I pass a piece of old furniture, I stop and listen. And if I hear three soft knocks, I run. Because now I know that some doors are meant to stay locked, and some voices from the other side are not asking for help—they’re demanding release.